


Little Red

by plastics



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Biting, Blood, Crying, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Underage Rape/Non-con, Werewolf Sex, set during chapter one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:48:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23137951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plastics/pseuds/plastics
Summary: Derry isn’t the sort of place to be walking through the woods at night.
Relationships: Patrick Hockstetter/Richie Tozier
Comments: 7
Kudos: 105
Collections: Teratophilia Trade 2020





	Little Red

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darlingargents](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingargents/gifts).



Derry isn’t the sort of place to be walking through the woods at night. Richie’s not some genius or always as freaked out as some of the other Losers, and even he knows that much. But they’d been at the clubhouse late, late enough for the summer sun to be long gone. The sky stayed a deep navy in the light of the full moon, and Richie was already one more fuckup away from being grounded, and the route through the woods was quickest—

Richie is realizing now, quite clearly, that he is an idiot. The path definitely wasn’t quicker with his bike, and he still had to be careful not to completely fuck up his ankles on raised roots.

And he can’t shake the feeling that he’s being followed. Now, Richie is practically a pro at denying his own fears and paranoia at this point, but it’s harder to shake off the unnatural rustling of leaves, snapping branches.

 _This is stupid,_ Richie thinks to himself. _So fucking unbelievably stupid. So goddamn shittily dumb-assed—_

A wolf howls. Close. Except there aren’t any wolves in Maine, haven’t been in centuries. It has to be bullshit, just another weird, fake nightmare that Richie won’t wake up from but goes away all the same. No way is he turning back now. He’s already halfway home. If he keeps up, maybe he’ll make it home within the five-minute late window he can usually talk his mom out of being mad about.

There’s a flicker of something big and dark ahead of him. Richie pauses. It has to be nothing. A particularly thick cluster of branches. The shadow of an owl. Some shit like that. It _has_ to be nothing. 

It’s not nothing. It’s something, getting closer. Bigger.

“Woah, shit,” Richie stammers. “N-nice doggie. Down. Stay.”

Is it even a dog? It almost looks like one, furry, down on all four, scraggly like strays—or pets people treat like strays—tend to be, but it’s fast as it rushes towards Richie, then _stands_ onto its back two legs, bent and furry but long, strong, wiry, like the rest of its body.

“Holy—” Richie starts, the denial bubbling up from his throat automatically, but before he can even finish, the thing is on him. It’s a miracle that his legs held as long as they did, because they buckle immediately, his bike falling to the side.

Terror takes over in jagged spikes, freezing Richie in place as his mind races. Pieces keep coming into sharp focus: Claws, teeth, both gleaming in the moonlight, a weirdly human torso, gleeful focus in dark eyes.

“Please let me go, you’re not real, please, just, please,” Riche babbles, trying to scramble backwards, only to be cut off by a deep growl that seems to vibrate down his spine. A hand—a clawed hand—wraps around his throat and squeezes, hard enough to make the air wheeze out of him.

Then the other hand landed on his hip. He jolted, then tried desperately to squirm away as that hand traveled up under his shirt. An animal wouldn’t be doing this. _Couldn’t_ do this, Richie’s mind supplies. But it was an undeniably animal face glaring down at him, panting against his face.

He’s getting lightheaded fast, and that must be why, through all the panic and fear, the feeling of claws almost gently scratching down his chest doesn’t send out the right signals. His heart is racing inches below this thing’s grasp, and he can feel his blood pumping hot and hard, rising to the surface beneath the scratch marks and in his dick. 

The thing thumbs—if you could call it that—at his nipple, rough and sharp. No one’s ever touched Richie like that before. He didn’t even know it could feel good, thought nipples were just, like, a girl thing, but he can feel himself respond. Except it’s not even a _one,_ it’s a _thing,_ like Richie wasn’t already fucked up. He’s in the middle of the woods, pinned by a fucking demented animal, and he still can’t get his dick to stop desperately wanting attention from the worst possible place.

Its nose twitches, and Richie feels his face. It can’t know. It’s impossible for it to know. Except, what had his biography teacher said last semester in their animal biology unit? Keener senses, pheromones… 

He hears the sound of tearing fabric just as warm air seeps over his torso and looks down just in time to see black claws tear through his t-shirt. Another terrible thrill goes through him; this cannot be happening. He can’t—lie here and let this happen. Richie scrambles back. There’s gotta be something he can do to get away. Find a big rock and swing it. Something.

The wolf growls again, angry, and the claws return to the sensitive softness of his belly and dig in. Not deep, but enough to hurt, to make Richie cry out. There’s so much heat to it all, the pain, his blood, the fact he’s still, somehow, turned on.

He doesn’t try anything as the wolf tears off his shorts, either, scared stiff. _In more ways than one,_ the twisted voice in his head supplies. _You sick fuck._

It’s impossible to deny, his dick twitching in open air humiliatingly eager. Richie can’t even form a full idea about what else this thing could possibly want from him before it leans down and licks his dick.

Richie can’t believe he’s getting his first blowjob by some fucked-up dog in woods behind his house, and it’s horrible, _horrible,_ and so fucking good, like this thing knows his dick practically better than he does, licking fat and wet over the head, down to his balls. Lower. 

“Oh, no, no, come on, no, I’m not—” Richie says, reaching down to grasp at the dark fur at the top of its head, but it doesn’t do much of anything. 

It’s not like Richie hasn’t done some exploring before, in the shower, with lots of soap. But inexperienced, awkward pokes from his own fingers never felt like this, never left him dripping and open. Richie feels his hips twitch towards it separately from himself, like some slutty stranger has taken over.

He still feels half out of it as he’s rolled onto his stomach, except then he realizes—and it should’ve been obvious, but he didn’t think, he _couldn’t—_ that this thing is very much a _boy_ thing, something seering and long grinding against where it—he—was just eating Richie hot.

This cannot be happening. Richie can’t—he’s been stupid and careless and weak the whole time this has been happening, but he can’t let this happen, not here, not with a literal fucking animal, no matter how desperate he thought he was. He starts thrashing desperately, trying to get any sort of real leverage under himself. He’s getting away. He has to. This cannot happen.

Except the wolf just isn’t sharp and big, he’s strong, and it only needs one hand to pin Riche’s chest back down into the ground, scratching on twigs and pebbles. He tries to reach back, but it doesn’t matter. He can’t do anything. The fighting does nothing to distract from the tip of this thing’s cock catching on his hole, then pushing in hard.

Richie cries out. It _hurts,_ and there’s so much pressure, but the wolf doesn’t care, just keeps thrusting into him, quick, his free hand groping at Richie’s ass and his back, leaving careless scratches.

His face goes hot as tears pool quickly in his eyes. He’s thought about getting fucked a lot. Too much, probably, a million different ways, and as big of a pervert as he is, he’s never thought about _this._ People said things sometimes, about Mike and his family and their farm animals, Richie had always said that it was freaks projecting their fantasies. And he’d meant it.

His dick has never been this hard before. It shouldn’t be possible with everything, but it is, come starting to drool out as the beast settles deep and—is he getting _thicker?_

Richie’s crying for real now, chest shaking with it, hurt and overwhelmed and so fucking close. Being stretched wider might end him, he thinks desperately. He can’t do this, but he _is,_ it’s happening and he can’t understand how everything is getting so much worse and better at the same time.

He feels a huff of hot, wet breath at the nape of his neck for a second before he felt teeth at his shoulder, digging in before Richie can even anticipate it and it hurts. It hurts it hurts everything _hurts_ it feels like the entirety of himself is rearranged—

He comes, as hard as he ever has.

* * *

The sky is a dull gray when Richie jerks awake, naked. The adrenaline turns his stomach, and he slaps frantically at it, his chest, expecting to find scratches and scabs. But there’s nothing. He looks down, confused, flushing when he sees the dirt and leaves dried onto him. 

There’s a shift in the leaves behind him. Richie jerks around and sees—no. No no no. No way.

Patrick fucking Hockstetter slowly sat up, rolling his neck. It only takes one look into those muddied blue eyes for Richie to know in his gut that Hockstetter and the monster last night were the same. He doesn’t know how, but they were, and somehow that turns his stomach more that it having happened in the first place.

And he must see the disgust, too, because only misery can make him smile. “Don’t worry, Tozier, you made a great bitch.”

“Fuck you,” Richie spits, and it feels pathetic when Hockstetter just laughs.

“I don’t think so.” Then he rolls onto his feet, shameless as his dick swings. Richie flinches, then eyes it, then pulls his face into something like apathy. “Come on, I have some clothes stashed.”

“Why the fuck would I want clothes from _you?”_

Hockstetter just eyes him, for maybe too long, then says, “I don’t really give a fuck. Walk back into town like that, see what people think.”

It feels like a trap. Never in Richie’s life has he willingly been within twenty feet of Hockstetter or anyone else in the Bowers gang. If he’d had any sense, he should have gotten up and ran the second he woke up, bare ass be damned. But he didn’t, and now the shame has had time to set in. Hockstetter doesn’t really play, either. If he wanted to hurt Richie again, he could, right here and now, no need to dangle clothes in front of him.

Richie stands shakily. He doesn’t feel as bad as he thought he would, actually, nothing sore or tender. “Lead the way, David Kessler.”

He almost thinks he gets away with it, too, but they’ve barely walked a few steps when pinches a point on his shoulder—the same point he’d bitten last night—and said, “I wasn’t kidding about you being my bitch, though.”

It sends an electric shock through Richie’s entire body, and he glances down, frantic, to see the only mark left over from last night: two jagged semicircles of healed-over pink scars. Big. Deep.

“Oh, _fuck,”_ Richie says.


End file.
